


The Whitestone Asylum

by ladygabe



Series: Side Quests: Critical Role Ficlets [6]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, asylum setting, highly questionable treatment of the mentally ill, low-key horror, warnings for Caleb Widogast’s backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygabe/pseuds/ladygabe
Summary: “There are many other tasks that can be assigned to our more able-minded,” she said. “Cooking, cleaning, laundry. Though, of course, we have some patients who must pay their debts to society in other ways. Take sweet Bren, here.” She motioned to a slack-faced human man in his late-twenties. He would have been handsome if it were not for the gauntness of his cheeks and the way his sky-blue eyes stared out of his face while seeing nothing at all. He sat in a chair with wheels affixed to the front and back, allowing him to be easily moved.(Eleven years after the death of his parents, Bren Almeric Ermendrud wakes up.)
Series: Side Quests: Critical Role Ficlets [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501781
Comments: 11
Kudos: 205





	The Whitestone Asylum

The Whitestone Asylum was a surprisingly pleasant place, to the eye. It stood three stories tall, built of cream limestone, and was decorated with ornate tapestries that masked the fact that there were no windows on its outer perimeter. It was laid out in a square, encircling a beautiful garden where patients were allowed to spend their days. There were windows here, large ones that lit the building with sunlight and made it feel open and welcoming.

It would be a very pleasant cage, if one could ignore the occasional screams and sobs of its residents.

A middle-aged woman strode into the garden, followed by a gaggle of young clerics who blinked quickly to adjust their eyes to the radiant sunlight. She wore the robes of a high priest of the Dawnfather, and her silver hair was tucked smartly into the structured headdress of her order.

“This is the High Summer Courtyard,” she said, her lips curving into a relaxed smile as she turned to face her charges. “Here, our patients can enjoy the fresh air and the beauty of nature, without being a trouble to the citizens of Rexxentrum.” It was early afternoon, and the gardens were quiet despite being well-populated. Most of the occupants were dressed in uniform linens, marking them as inmates. Some were working on the gardens themselves, diligently plucking weeds from the vegetable beds, while others simply sat or wandered. A few elder clerics were on duty, keeping the less able-minded from plucking at the plants or otherwise being a nuisance.

“While it may seem at first glance to be simply a place of rest, the Courtyard is actually an extremely valuable resource for the rehabilitation of our guests. As you can see, many fruits and vegetables are grown here, all attended to by patients who have shown the aptitude for such work. The produce is sold at the markets each week, and some of the proceeds go to offset the cost of their care, limiting the financial burden on their families.”

The talk of cost did not go unnoticed by the students, but it was not commented upon; they all knew that Whitestone Asylum was not the place for the poor. The average madman would find himself in one of the outer city asylums, or more likely locked up in the stocks. The patients here were born of well-to-do families who were quick to nullify the embarrassment of a hysterical daughter or who had convinced the law that their son was too insane to be imprisoned for his crimes.

“What if they’re no good at gardening?” asked young halfling man. The high priest smiled at him, seeming to be pleased by the willing participation.

“There are many other tasks that can be assigned to our more able-minded,” she said. “Cooking, cleaning, laundry. Though, of course, we have some patients who must pay their debts to society in other ways. Take sweet Bren, here.” She motioned to a slack-faced human man in his late-twenties. He would have been handsome if it were not for the gauntness of his cheeks and the way his sky-blue eyes stared out of his face while seeing nothing at all. He sat in a chair with wheels affixed to the front and back, allowing him to be easily moved.

He wore the same plain linen outfit all the inmates did. The only difference was that two thick cuffs of metal encircled his bony wrists, the magic runes inscribed in them glowing faintly. The high priest led the group over to where he sat, parked in the shade of a pecan tree. She gave his neatly-trimmed copper hair a fond pat in greeting.

“As you can see, Bren is in a state we call catatonia. Most simply put: the lanterns are lit, but no one is home.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face; he did not blink. “Needless to say, he is quite useless for everyday tasks.”

“He’s like this all the time?” asked a human student as he and his classmates peered curiously over this new oddity.

“The majority of it. He does not respond to any outward stimuli, save for one.” She drew her fingers apart, and a tiny flame flickered between them. The man’s eyes suddenly focused, inhaling sharply and jerking back in his chair hard enough he rolled back an inch before the priest caught him. She extinguished the flame, smoothing his hair back and making soft noises of comfort until his breathing calmed and he returned to his previous blank state. There was a murmur of intellectual curiosity amongst the students. 

“So how exactly can he be useful?” the halfling asked.

“Luckily for Bren, here, the Cerberus Assembly is quite fond of him.” The priest gave Bren a smile, as if proud of him for this fact. “He makes an excellent subject for many of their magical trials. After all, it is not as if he is going to complain. They come and borrow him once a month or so, and in return provide the funding for his care.” With another pat, she stepped away from the young man, waving to the students to follow.

“Now then, continuing on with our tour…”

They left Bren, quiet and unmoving, in the shade.  
****  
“—and then he pissed in the tomatoes, and it took two guards to tackle him!” Thema chatted amiably at Bren as she wheeled him into the Common Room, automatically angling him away from the fireplace that crackled merrily on the north wall. “You are such a blessing, you know? Not a bit of trouble at all. Would that I had five of you as charges, instead of pests like Mordi.”

A large bay window overlooked the now dark courtyard, the large sill made plush with pillows and throws. A young elven woman sat amongst them, rocking back and forth, mumbling nonsense to herself. Thema smiled brightly, and pushed Bren over to her.

“There you are! Bren, this is Layla; she is new.” The elven woman jerked her head up, violet eyes wild as she babbled in a language Thema did not know. Unperturbed, the cleric continued her introductions. “Layla, this is Bren. Now, I know you like to talk, so why don’t you keep him company? He’s very quiet, but don’t worry about that; it means he’s a very good listener.” Layla balled back up, continuing her rambling, which Thema took as good sign.

“I will leave you two to it, then! Play nice!” Humming contentedly to herself, the cleric made her way back to her rounds.

She did not notice the way Layla went quiet, studying Bren’s blank expression. Nor how she slowly uncurled, creeping down from the window seat and over to his chair like a cat stalking across the forest floor. Bracing her hands on the arms, she leaned forward until they were nose to nose.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “You’re all empty, aren’t you? Your soul has run off somewhere far, far away.”

Layla took the young man’s face in her hands, her fingers glittering with light. “Good morning,” she whispered, before pressing a playful kiss to the tip of his nose.

There was a sound like breaking glass.

Giggling to herself, Layla skipped back to the window and threw herself down into the pile of pillows.

***  
Bren woke up.

His first thought was that he must be hungover. That would explain why his head felt as if it had been cracked by a sledgehammer, and his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Had he been drinking? He found he could not remember. It must have been alcohol. Otherwise, he always remembered. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself.

Those were not his hands.

Terror coursed through him as he stared at the hands sitting placidly in his lap. The skin tone looked right, at first glance, but the fingers were a hair too long, and far too thin. The fingernails were short and neat, with no signs of being chewed on. There were no visible callouses, not even one on the middle finger, where a quill would rest.

The hands in his lap were shaking.

He was shaking.

One. Two. Three. Bren slowly counted to ten in his head, and with each number he twitched a finger. The hands in his lap moved. He felt the soft fabric of his pants against the fingertips.

He could move them, but they were not his hands.

Trying to choke down rising panic, Bren desperately tried to remember where he last was, what had happened. It had been late, the night had been dark. There had been no moon in the sky.

Seven minutes past midnight on the thirteenth day of Dualahei, in the year 819 P.D., Bren remembered placing his hands against the peeling wood of his single-story, four-room childhood home, and letting flame seep from them.

Eight minutes past midnight, he stepped back to watch the flames grow, a smile on his face.

Nine minutes past midnight, he heard his mother scream.

Time fell away. There was nothing but fire and the terror of the dying.

Then, there was only silence.

With a jolt, Bren realized he did not know what time it was. He did not know what day, what year. He did not know where he was, not simply in location, but in space. He did not know which way was north, how high up he was, where to look in the sky for the moon.

“Did you have fun with Layla?” At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Bren froze. He realized someone was behind him, and felt the weight of their hands on the chair he was sitting in. In front of him, an Elven woman was singing nonsense to herself, staring out of a large bay window caged in with iron bars.

His chair moved. It was on wheels. “It sounds like she had fun,” said the the person who was pulling him backwards. Female, with a Northern Rexxentrum accent. “That’s good. You could both use a friend.” Bren said nothing, not daring to turn around.

There were others in the room he had awoken in. They all wore undyed linen clothing, the exact same as his. A hospital?

His gaze focused on the elven woman once more. He could faintly remember, in the way one remembers a dream, her hands on his cheeks. She had began to rock back and forth, muttering, always muttering. She was mad as a hatter.

This was an asylum.

Congratulations, Ermendrud, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind. You finally went insane.

The woman behind him continued to talk as she pulled him out of the room and then began to guide him down the torchlit hall. Apparently she did not expect him to reply, which was a minor blessing. He was not sure that if he opened his mouth he would be able to do anything but scream.

She took him to a small, plain room, with nothing but a bed and a chamber pot. There were no windows.

“Time for bed!” she told him cheerfully. He did not resist as she tottered into view and then made him stand, then sit on the bed, then lie down on his back. The movements felt familiar to his body, but Bren could not remember ever having done this before.

She pulled a blanket up over him, and patted him on the shoulder. “Close your eyes,” she said.

Bren obeyed.

There was the sound of footsteps, the squeak of the chair wheels, and then the heavy door being gently shut.

Bren jerked upright in bed. “Scheisse, Scheisse, Scheisse –” The curses came out a croaked whisper, his voice deep and unfamiliar to his ears. He staggered as he tried to stand, barely catching himself on the far wall. His mind and his body seemed to be at odds, unsure how to interact with one another. How long had it been?

Sinking to the floor, Bren started to take stock of his situation, using the observations to calm the flurried panic in his mind. The room was approximately eight foot by eight foot. Most of it was taken up by the flat, featureless bed. The walls were made of stone. It was lit by a small lantern bolted to the wall, flame hidden from view by a ball of smoky glass. There was only one exit. The door was made out of a dark wood. He had not heard the latch of a lock. He wore only a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of loose pants. Neatly placed next to the bed were a pair of soft shoes, the soles unworn.

There were two metal cuffs on his wrists. He recognized the runes faintly pulsing in the dim light.

Magic suppression. They were keeping him from casting spells.

Why was he here? Why had Trent allowed him to be –

Trent.

Suddenly he remembered kneeling in front of the wizard. Astrid was to his left, Eowulf to his right. “You will now remember,” he was saying, arcane power laced in every word, “that you woke in the middle of the night to the sound of voices. Your parents were talking, assuming you were asleep. They are talking about pulling you out of school, taking you away from me, away from your true family. They no longer trust the Empire, no longer feel loyalty to the King. They speak of leaving town, of joining the rebel forces. You realize that your parents are traitors, and they are whispering of revolution.”

Trent Ikithon snapped his fingers, and the spell had taken hold.

Fake. Fake. The memory of his parents’ conversation had been a lie. It had been implanted, an illusion placed in his mind. His parents had not been traitors. They had been innocent.

As quietly as he could, Bren grasped for the chamber pot and vomited.

They had all been tricked. They had all been lied to.

He had killed his parents for nothing.

It was a very long time before the tears finally began to subside and Bren could begin to pick himself up off the floor.

Even simple movement was a strain, his muscles atrophied from lack of movement. He forced himself through the weakness and the pain.

The moment the staff realized he was of sound mind, they would contact Trent. He had no idea what Ikithon would do to a student who had broken upon completion of his final trial.

He had no desire to find out.

Pressing his ear against the door, he stilled himself and listened. Sixty seconds. One-hundred and twenty. The echo of booted footsteps, evenly spaced. The shuffle of cloth, and the clink of armor. A flicker of torchlight under the door. A guard. The steps faded down the hall.

Bren stood at the door, and he waited.

It was thirty-six minutes later when the footsteps returned. Same gait, same shuffle, same clink. Same guard. A lazy circuit.

This time, when the steps faded, Bren counted to one-hundred.

Then he opened the door.

The hallway was dark, with only an occasional torch to save it from being pitch-black. It was long and silent, with rows of identical doorways on both sides.

Bren took one step out.

A bell chimed down the hall.

“Scheisse!” He jerked back into the room, quickly closing the door. Idiot, complete idiot, of course it had been alarmed; they would not just let crazy people wander the hallways! Stumbling back, he quickly pushed the chamber pot under the bed and crawled back under the blanket, reassuming the stiff position he had taken earlier. He heard the first shouts almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

“It came from Ermendrud’s room!” Multiple footsteps echoed down the hall. Bren stayed very still as the door swung open, keeping his breathing even.

“No one,” said a confused male voice.

“He looks asleep,” said a female one, just as baffled.

“Someone was in Bren’s room?” That voice Bren recognized, even though it was out of breath; it was the woman who had put him to bed, earlier.

“That, or he got up.” The cleric’s snort was derisive.

“He’s been in a stupor for eleven years,” she said, as if she could not believe how stupid the guards that they employed were. “He’s not just going to _get up_.”

Eleven years. The fact struck Bren like a crossbow bolt. He had been here for eleven years.

No wonder he had not recognized his own hands. They were the hands of a twenty-eight-year-old man, not a seventeen-year-old boy.

It was a relief when they left, arguing amongst themselves, and Bren could allow himself to weep once more.

***  
The next day went quietly, and the day after that. Pretending to be mad was surprisingly easy when apparently all it required was for Bren to stay still. The worst part of it was the gnawing boredom that set in anytime he was under watch.

Luckily, there were many times he was not. He was considered a low-risk inmate, and the clerics often would park his chair in a room or even a hallway and disappear off on their own tasks. Other patients would walk past him, and not give him any mind at all. It made it extremely trivial to begin collecting the things he needed.

A small pouch with a cord came from a gaming set, the cards dumped out of it. Dried meat and nuts from a snack bowl later filled most of it. He obtained a short knife from the kitchens. All the while, he memorized pathways and exits, names and faces, and began to plot his escape.

It was the third day when the opportunity to do so presented itself, but it nearly scared the life from him first.

Thema, as he had learned the cleric assigned to him was named, woke him up an hour earlier than normal.

“It is Academy Day!” she told him cheerfully as she dressed him not in his normal linens, but more normal clothing suited for going outside the walls. A tremor ran through him. Had they figured it out? Why were they sending him to the Academy? Did Trent know?

Thema paused, studying him curiously. “Did you just shiver, dear?” Bren forced his stare to remain blank, reigned in his breathing before he could begin to hyperventilate. “It’s too warm to be cold… you’re not scared, are you?”

I am terrified, he thought, but did not say. Thema patted his cheek, before returning to buttoning up his vest.

“Now don’t you worry. You’ll be there at most a day, maybe two, and then you’ll be right back here as always.” As always.

Of course. Bren felt foolish. This was normal. Trent had willingly experimented on him when he was perfectly sane; why would he bother to stop, just because Bren had lost his mind?

He barely had enough time when she turned away to grab his pouch from underneath his pillow and slide it up his sleeve. As she moved him from the bed to the chair and began to push him down the hallway, one thought dominated Bren’s mind.

If he went to the Academy, he was worse than dead.

His acting may have fooled a few clerics and Crownsguard, but Trent would take one look at him and know.

This was his one and only chance.

Thema pushed him through a guarded door, into a room he had not yet been. It was obviously the welcoming foyer; an elven woman sat behind a large desk, barely glancing up from her work to acknowledge them. Waiting on a long bench was a man, a few years older than – no, Bren reminded himself. He was not seventeen anymore – a few years younger than him, dressed in the robes of an Assembly scholar. He stood with a small huff, obviously impatient.

“There you are. Come on, or you’ll make us late. Need I remind you the Archmage is not a patient man?”

“No,” Thema responded curtly, “you do not. I should have you do all the work of preparing Bren to go, and see how quickly you can do it.”

“You could send him out in his smallclothes,” the scholar groused, leading the way as two more Crownsguard held open the great doors that lead out to the street. For the first time since he had awoken, Bren could see freedom. It was all he could do to stay still and not bolt. “Not like he would care.”

“I care,” Thema barked back. “We have a reputation to maintain here. We are not going to be sending our patients running about in their underwear.” The scholar rolled his eyes as he approached a modest carriage and began to climb in.

“Whatever. Get him in here.”

With a huff of her own, Thema wheeled Bren’s chair as close to the carriage as she could get before coming around to take his arm, tugging him to his feet. “Stand up – there we go. Now, step up into the carriage, one more step – good boy. Now sit down right there – all right. Be good for the Archmage, and I will see you soon.” She patted Bren’s knee, and then closed the carriage door.

Bren found himself hoping she would not be punished when the news of his escape reached the Asylum.

The scholar, like most others he had met so far, promptly began to ignore him as the carriage started to move. He leaned his head back, stretching his arms out on either side of the bench, and appeared ready to take a nap.

Bren did not know how far away the Asylum was from the Academy. He did not know how long he had until it would be too late.

It was all too easy to slide the knife from his sleeve and sheathe it in the scholar’s exposed throat. The man’s brown eyes flew open, but he did no more than gurgle quietly before slumping to the side.

All in all, Bren noted, it was one of the cleanest kills he had ever made.

Bren peeked out the carriage window. He did not recognize the street they were on, which meant they were likely not close to the Academy. He had a few minutes, perhaps. Long enough to be worth patting down the scholar’s body.

A spell book. A small bag of coin. Several rings. A pocket knife. A good haul, enough to get him a fair start.

Most important of all, however, was what he found around the man’s punctured neck. Bren did not know if he believed in gods anymore, but he silently thanked any who were listening anyway as he pulled free an Amulet of Proof against Detection, wiping the blood off of it onto the carriage cushions. He tied it around his own neck, tucking it into his shirt.

The carriage made a left turn. It was time to go.

Bren peeked out the window once more, then carefully pushed open the handle. The moment they came to a crossroads, he threw the door open and jumped.

“What was –” Bren did not hear the rest of the driver’s question. He was already gone, losing himself quickly in the morning traffic.

***  
“They’ve got the entire Crownsguard out looking for this bloke. The Assembly even sent us a request to help them find him.” Kethadok tossed a rolled missive to Dairon, who caught it without bothering to look up. The Expositor unrolled it, bright eyes quickly taking in the letters even as the Archivist continued to talk. “They won’t even give us the time of day, and yet they’re willing to beg for our help because one madman escaped Whitestone?”

Dairon hummed thoughtfully under their breath. “Apparently so.”

“Isn’t that a little overkill?” Kethadok asked. “How hard is he going to be to find?”

“I know this name.” Standing abruptly, the Expositor dug through their satchel, pulling out a worn journal. They began to flip through, automatically decoding their own encrypted notes. There it was. It had been crossed out, many years ago. It seems they had assumed wrong.

“You do? Who is he?”

“One of Ikithon’s,” Dairon answered. Kethadok went still.

“If the rumors about his brood are true –” the Archivist whispered. Dairon turned and chucked the Assembly’s missive into the fireplace.

“Tell them no. I’m not sending any of our students to die. This is a problem they will have to solve on their own.”

“The Crownsguard aren’t going to catch him.” Dairon nodded their head in agreement, putting their journal away again.

“If he’s regained any amount of sanity, they’re going to look right past him.”

***

When the filthy young man, teeth black from rot and hair brown from muck, made it to the front of the queue, the Crownsguard in charge of the East Gate wrinkled his nose. This lockdown was a pain in the ass. He had been shaking down merchants, travelers, and farmers for the past six hours, with no end in sight, just to make sure they were not somehow hiding a red-headed lunatic in their bags. This bloke had no bags at all, just a ratty coat that smelled like two-day old vomit and horse shit. He was fairly certain that there was no way he had hidden a madman in his pocket, and the last thing he wanted to do was touch him.

He did not even bother to ask for a name. Instead he just jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of here, kid. And jeez, take a bath sometime, will you?”

Bren Aldric Ermendrud walked out of the city of Rexxentrum and into the night.


End file.
